


a rose by any other name would smell as sweet

by wearealltalesintheend



Series: the gates of Hell are open night and day;  smooth the descent, and easy is the way [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Witness Protection, F/M, Fake Character Death, Heavy Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt, only mentioned but it's there so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John picks up the newspaper and he skips to the classified section. It's an habit and it's routine, so he does it mechanically, ignoring the nagging on his brain whispering for him to remember Alexander laughing at him for being silly on his kitchen and telling him to give him the economics section.</p><p>John reads it out of muscle memory. Still, when it happens, it startles him into dropping the mug on his hand."</p><p> </p><p>or, John doesn't want complications but he can't let go and gets in way over his head. And maybe, Alexander is not as dead as one might think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this starts very sad but it gets better, I promise. Or not, who knows. Also, I, again, have no idea what I'm doing but I'm a stress writer so here we are.  
> Sidenote, the story title was taken from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet and the chapter title was also taken from a Shakespeare play: Hamlet.  
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy it.

_Now_

The fist collides with his face. John stumbles, spits blood on the ground. There's a pause, the other man waits to see if he gives up. John gets up, grins with blood on his lips and fire in his eyes and launches himself.

.

.

.

But that is not the beggining. It's not the end either. It's more of an interlude. It's the sea rearing back before another wave hits.

But that is not the beggining. It's a start, but not the beggining.

Let's rewind.

.

.

.

_Before_

It's Friday night and John is going out. It's not a question, it's a statement. John Laurens is going out and he will be getting laid before the night is over. It's quite a simple task, it's an easy plan. He doesn't want complications.

John is going out when his phone rings. It's a shrill, high-pitched sound that cuts though the room and pierces through his skull, daring him not to answer.

_(in the future, John will remember this, the phone ringing in his small apartment._

_He will find that this is it, this is the moment everything changed._

_There will be nights, in the future, when John will wonder what would have been, had he not answered the phone, if he only walked away._

_Those will be the nights with blood and nightmares and screams. Then he will wonder, but never wish it away.)_

He sighs, looks longingly at the door, he answers his phone.

It's Aaron Burr, of all people to call him on a Friday night. He sounds desperate, annoyed and worried. John doesn't get much of what he's saying, something about a roommate and fevers and pneumonia.

"Will you come?"

John mulls over the question, "hospitals exist for a reason, you know?"

" He won't let me take him to one."

Silence.

"John?"

He sighs.

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

John doesn't like complications, he doesn't _do_ complicated. So, he's going to Aaron's place and he is going to check this roommate and then go out to the night. It's an easy plan, it's a simple task.

John locks the door and steps into the winter night.

.

.

.

_Now_

John stumbles outside. It's winter and his blood stains the snow piling on the ground. It pools around him, tainting the white, it glares at him, it mocks him, it tells him _he's dead he's dead he's dead._

He picks up the red snow, makes a snowball and throws it at the empty street. It hits the pavement and melts away. The world spins, John feels sick. The snow is red and breathing hurts. Alexander is still dead and John can't move on.

.

.

.

There are five stages of loss and grief.

John says there are five stages of lying.

If someone you love dies, how can you really move on?

.

.

.

_Before_

Burr's apartment is chaos, John would've never imagined. But then, John never knew the roommate.

He still doesn't. All he knows is a man drowning in blankets, cheeks flushed with high fever and severe coughing.

It's not pneumonia. Yet. John tells Aaron so and receives a relieved smile. Aaron then fidgets and John wants to run.

"I need to go buy the meds. Will you wait?"

John mulls over the question, the roommate coughs.

"You have ten minutes."

Aaron leaves and John sits at the foot of the bed. He looks outside, it starts to snow.

.

.

.

_Now_

John feels the snow seeping through his clothes, through his skin, running in his blood, freezing his bones, his soul. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can see it, his blood slowly freezing, ice covering his lungs, his heart.

He looks around, the streetlight faintly illuminating the street, the snow falling steadly, and he thinks of calling Lafayette to pick him up. But Lafayette would tell Mulligan and then the Schuylers and then John would never have peace again.

So instead, he calls Burr, because Burr _gets_ it.

He stumbles into the car. Burr takes in his bruises and the blood and the alcohol. John rests his head in the window, watches the glass fog with his breath, traces mindless patterns with his fingers.

"This needs to stop."

They are in front of John's apartment, Burr grips the wheel until his knuckles go white, his voice is tight and careful, it's a knife cutting through the haze in John's mind, it's a spark lighting up his anger.

"John, you are kiling yourself, this-" a pause, a sigh, "Alex wouldn't want this."

Aaron's voice is soft and understanding and compassionate and John wants to punch him. It makes his blood boil because Burr might _get_ it but no, he doesn't _understand_ it, nobody else does because nobody else is _John_ and nobody else is _Alexander._

"You don't know _shit,_ Burr." John smiles a vicious smile, bloodied and cruel and raw, "how's the wife again?"

Burr grips the wheel tighter and his lips are a thin line, it fills John with a cruel satisfaction, it burns inside him like acid, like wildfire.

"I- I have a kid you know? I can't keep picking you up at three in the morning."

"Well, then fucking don't."

He tries to leave, he ends up laying on the ground. The world spins around him, he feels the bile rising in his throat, he feels the snow burning his skin. John hears the car door open and close, footsteps and a voice calling his name. He feels hands helping him up and inside the building and into his bed.

John is drunk and the world is spinning madly around him. He looks up at the ceiling, eyes looking for the constellations they painted on a spring afternoon. The stars all blur together, the yellow and the dark blue dancing, only streaks of color, shapeless and meaningless.

John looks at the blurred constelations on the ceiling and thinks they should paint a wall this time, on another spring afternoon. He could almost see it, the sun shining through the window, Alexander with blue paint on his left cheek, head thrown back laughing, brush forgotten at his feet, and then John would reach and try to wipe it and end up smudging it more, Alex would laugh and throw paint at him and they would laugh and kiss and fuck and end up with paint all over.

John looks at the painted ceiling and imagines and turns to tell Alexander. He finds a long cold, empty spot.

John is still drunk and Alexander is still dead.

.

.

.

_Before_

John is bored. Burr is still out and John is still in his apartment and the roommate is still sick. He checks his fever, still high, he pushes dark hair out of his eyes and puts a wet cloth on his forehead.

John is a doctor but he already did his job and Burr is taking his sweet time, so he is _entitled_ to have a look around, yes.

He checks the small table first. It has papers scattered all over it and law books piling at the corners, but it's the essays that catch his eyes. There are a dozen of them, at least. Titles going from financial analysis to human rights and equality.

John is bored and Burr is taking too long, so he checks on the roommate again and then picks up one of the essays.

When Aaron Burr comes back half an hour later, John is halfway through the fourth paper. Burr takes one look at the essay and shakes his head, _no he doesn't mind, it's not his anyway, hasn't John seen the name?_

He scans the paper and finds it, at the bottom of the page, in the same hurried handwriting. _Alexander Hamilton._

John looks at the roommate. He had turned in his sleep and the cloth fell from his forehead. He gets up, washes it in the sink and puts it back again.

"I can't really take care of him. You're a doctor, John." Burr is fidgeting again, eyes pleading and voice soft, "Will you stay?"

John looks at the sleeping form, thinks of his earlier plans, of the papers scattered on the desk, of the snow falling outside and feels like it's not much of a choice. He leaves the bedroom door open and follows Burr to the living room.

John lays on the couch, he doesn't feel much like sleeping. Instead, he reads the papers and books and checks on the roommate. _Alexander Hamilton,_ his mind corrects, _Alexander Hamilton._

.

.

.

_Now_

The first thing John becomes aware of is the darkness. The second is the pain. If you asked him, John could recite every bone on the human body. If you asked him now, he would say he managed to at least crack every single one of them.

But pain is something John has grown used to, fond even. Pain is what keeps him grounded on reality, it's how he knows he is awake, he is still alive. So the ache on his chest, the gaping wound burning inside him, it's all background noise, it's subtext, it's routine.

John wakes up and there is a note on the fridge, it's a glaring yellow stain on the white of his refrigerator screaming at him to read it, to accept it, to follow whatever is written there. He takes one look at the neat handwriting, thinks of how wrong it is, ( _it shouldn't be neat, it should be hurried and sloppy like his hands couldn't keep up with his brain_ ) and the wound on his chest grows and simmers and he crumbles the paper and lets it fall on the floor.

So, John wakes up, steps on the paper until it lays flat on the tiles of his kitchen and he makes a toast, because it's been six months and he is still on leave, because they still won't let him work, because his hands still shake, because he still dreams of blood and flatlines and because he can't bring himself to walk into a hospital.

John thinks he gets it now, why Alexander would refuse to go to a hospital no matter his condition. He gets it now, the way the white blank walls mock and taunt you and the stench of desinfectants grips his lungs and chase away the oxygen. He gets it now, and finds ironic how Alexander still managed to fall in love with a doctor. It couldn't have been easy, he thinks, for Alex not to wince when he came back every day, still smelling like hospitals and _death._ He can appreciate it now, the effort, the strained smiles and the quick kisses and the ushering him to _change, c'mon John, let's take a shower, uh?_

John gets it now and the irony of a doctor afraid of hospital doesn't get lost on him either. It's been only six months, people tell him, _you'll get over it, just give it time_ and John wants to scream back that _yes, it's been already six months, it's been an eternity._ He wants to tell them that everyday after that day was a day too many.

.

.

.

_Before_

John wakes up to the smell of fresh coffee and to the sound of whispered yelling. It takes him a minute to gather his thoughts, his memories, once he does, he realizes the quiet screaming match comes from one of the bedrooms.

He strains to listen, the voices rising slightly before being shushed. John recognizes Burr's voice, annoyed and familiar. The other cracks and sounds strained, but filled with passion as it strongly disagrees with Burr. John guesses the this voice belongs to his late night patient.

John can't make out words from the arguing, but it's not much of a stretch to conclude they are discussing him. So he gets up from the couch and knocks on the bedroom door.

Inside, he finds Burr standing on the middle of the room, arms crossed, frown in place. On the bed, the man he examined is sitting, back pressed to the wall and blankets wrapped around his shoulders, the bags under his eyes standing out angrily against the sickly pale of his skin and his head whips to glare at John, he opens his mouth but a fit of coughing racks his body.

John snaps into his professional self and he runs to the man's side, checks his temperature and hands the glass of water Burr brings.

"I don't need a doctor and I don't need your charity, so thanks but no thanks, you can go now."

John sighs and Burr deflates as the man sips on his water and glares at them, his proclamation echoing on the room.

"I'm John Laurens," he says and he wants to bolt out of the door, he doesn't want to deal with this, he helped more than enough already. Instead, he glances at Aaron Burr, standing uncomfortable on the wooden floor, smiles, and tries to look as non threatening as possible, "and I'm not a doctor yet, so you'd probably be the one helping me, really."

"Alexander Hamilton." His eyes searche and measure John, but he must find whatever he had been looking for, since his voice softens next, "But you already knew that. Now, please tell this man I am perfectly fine and can go back to work."

Turns out, John needn't worry, as Alexander answers his own request by coughing profusely.

"Oh, yes, Alex, you've never been better." Burr deadpans and shakes his head and John feels like he's watching a rehearsed argument, a reprise playing out for him. "Go read some of your damn books."

Alexander catches the copy of _The Great Gatsby_ tossed at him, opens it at random and begins as loudly as his sore throat allows him, " _So we beat on, boats against the current-"_

John laughs, Burr walks out of the room aggravated and Alexander yells for his work.

.

.

.

_Now_

John picks up the newspaper and he skips to the classified section. It's an habit and it's routine, so he does it mechanically, ignoring the nagging on his brain whispering for him to remember Alexander laughing at him for being silly on his kitchen and telling him to give him the economics section.

John reads it out of muscle memory. Still, when it happens, it startles him into dropping the mug on his hand. In the newspaper, it reads:

" _So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."_


	2. abandon all hope, ye who enter here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds another note on the paper and sees a ghosts. They have a lead but Mulligan just wants to work in peace without commiting a felony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back surprisingly early, don't get too used to it. I have not proofread this chapter so I'm sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter title was taken from Dante's Inferno and the quote comes from To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.
> 
> Enjoy,

_Now_

"Well, why don't you start by telling me the reason you rescheduled our appointment, John?"

Doctor Johnson says kindly, in the same cajoling tone she uses every Thursday. The therapy is not something John particularly likes, but it keeps the hospital HR off his back and minimizes the pitying look on his friends's eyes and the worried check ins. All in all, it's a small price to pay for a bit of peace.

"It's just- my friends, they were a little worried with the, uh, you know." He vaguely gestures his face, pointing out the black and blue bruises, and she nods.

"But that's not the only reason, is it?" the doctor asks softly, "you've came here in worse shape before, John. Did something else happen?"

"No, not really, I mean, yes, but- I don't know," eyes closed, he exhales and runs a shaky hand through his hair, a futile effort to sort out his thoughts, "they think it's nothing."

"But you don't?"

"No, I mean, it has to be, right?"

"Why don't you tell me from the beginning?"

"Yeah, sure, it was a Saturday-"

.

.

.

_48 hours earlier_

John leaves his apartment in a hurry. There is a steady pounding in his head and the world seems unfocused, pain courses through his veins at every breath and every move. It's not unusual for him to go out on a daze, sometimes he does that, he starts walking without direction and doesn't stop until his lungs are burning.

So, it's Saturday and the newspaper ad repeats on his mind, whispering the words, telling him _but what if._

It nags and chews at his brain because who else would know? And why would anyone else put it there anyway?

_But what if_

John digs his nails on his palms, he shakes his head, tries to disperse the train of thoughts. He walks until he becomes aware again of the headache and the way the lights blind him and the city noises pierce his skull. He walks until he remembers he is hungover and beaten up and hurt.

John stumbles in the Central Park, seeking shelter on the shades of the trees and the considerably more silent environment. He lays on the grass and watches through half-closed eyes as people come and go on the streets outside. He lays there, feels the grass tickling his bare arms, watches as a woman walks her dog, as a little girl chases a bird, as cars speed by, as Alexander hurries along the street, as-

In all his life, that's the second time John's world stops spinning.

He jolts up, a sharp pain on his head almost knocks him down, but he sees him. It's _him_ , he knows it, he cut his hair, sure but it's him, walking briskly, fast-paced as always, on the street outside, it's Alexander, John _knows_ it.

Except, Alex is dead, John was there when it happened, he had held him and put pressure on the wound and yelled at him not to move, not to talk, not to sleep. John had done everything he had been taught at med school, his hands had been covered in blood - Alexander's blood - and his shirt and jeans, they had all been stained with angry red, John had been there on the ride to the hospital, John had been _there_ when Alex died so John knows Alex can't be walking by the fucking Central Park. Except, _he is._

_So we beat on, boats against the current-_

So John runs as fast as he can, stumbling and uncoordinated, because Alex is dead but Alex is walking down the street.

_-borne back ceaselessly into the past._

John runs but as he finally makes it on the street, lungs burning and head pounding, Alex is gone, swallowed by the crowd.

He stands there, in the sidewalk, looking around in searche of wide, hazel eyes and tanned skin. He must look crazy, John knows, all bruised and disheveled, whipping his head around. He feels his heart fall on the sidewalk and splinter into little shards, feels the hope swirls and die and turn into smoke.

John thinks of the newspaper, of the note, of Burr saying _will you stay?_ on a Friday night with snow falling outside, of a name written in hurried hadwriting on the bottom of a paper. He thinks of blood stained clothes and a gun going off and the monitor flatlining. It makes his head hurt and nothing seems to fit right, like someone mixed two different puzzles and left John to piece it as only one picture.

Still, John _hopes._

.

.

.

_Now_

"They think I'm losing it."

"Who are they, John?"

"My friends, they think I'm going crazy."

"Did they tell you that?"

"No, but-"

"Then, why do you think that?"

John sighs, looks around the office. It's very ordinary, nothing that stands out or catches his eyes, it's the kind of place to fade away from memory, that maybe years from now will have blended in with a thousand other rooms. Except, there was the elephant in the room, the reason why John was there at all. It wasn't something you forget, no, it was the kind of thing that will still claw and burn and hurt no matter how many years pass. It was the kind of wound that festers, that infects and rots and poisons.

Still, John looks around the office, nothing stands out or catches his eyes. He knows the answer, it's clear, it's painted all over his face, it's on the bags under his eyes, it's on the bruises and it's on the broken bones, it's on the shaking of his hands.

"Because _I_ think I'm losing it, okay? I'm going crazy, I'm hallucinating and-" he puts his head on his hands, screws his eyes shut, tries to block the world out, to stop the tightness building in his chest. Then, he deflates, "I just want it to stop."

John risks a look at the doctor. She stares at him with the usual pity and condescention dancing in her blue eyes and he once more wonders why the fuck he still comes here every week. _Because it doesn't matter, because you never think there will be a next week._

"John, do you want to know what I think?" she waits for him to nod along, "Well, I think you saw a passage of one of Alexander's favorite books in the newspaper and worked yourself up, you are with me so far? So later when you saw someone who looked like him, well, you saw what you wanted to see."

She pauses and John mulls over her words. He wants to believe her, he wants to take her words and replace it on his thoughts because she is right, she makes sense. He repeats it over and over until it drowns out everything else.

"John, you are not crazy. Given everything you've been through, it's perfectly normal to feel lost in your grief."

He sighs, thanks Doctor Johnson and leaves the building.

John Laurens is used to not having a home. He has lived in many houses, yes, but none of them had been _home._ That is, until he moved to the little apartment in off campus. That had been the first place he called _home._ But then, he had been alone at the time. After that, _home_ began to grow. It wasn't only his place, _home_ was Lafayette's silly jokes and Burr's deadpans. It was calling his sister every Sunday afternoon and doodling on Angelica's notebook. But that was _before_ Alexander. After that, _home_ became the one particularly sloppy star painted on his ceiling, it was coffee stains on papers, it was sarcasm and passionate speeches, it was typing at 3 am and it was whispered conversations until the sun came up. _Home_ became _Alexander_ and everything that came with him.

But now, with Alexander gone, John is left without a home. It's not a foreign feeling for him, it's familiar, it's almost the beggining of _home_ again. As he walks, John thinks _this_ he can deal with. He's done it before, he knows how to build from scratch. He _remembers._

.

.

.

_Before_

John drums his fingers on the armrest of his seat. He looks at the sky on the window, a light blue stretching endlessly, the horizon faintly curved. On the speakers they say they will be landing soon and John looks down through the window, he watches as the skyscrapes stand proudly and New York comes to view. It all seems tiny from so up in the sky. The people, the cars the world.

John watches the city that never sleeps on the early hours of the morning from his seat on the airplane and he feels strangely calm. He feels the remnants of South Carolina finally leave him, he feels free for the first time in years. John sees his future waiting for him on New York, he has his whole life ahead of him, he can be whoever he wants here.

John steps out of the airport, bags clutched tightly and breathes in the air. It's dry and filthy and full of smoke and it makes him cough, but it's so different from his father's state and he can't tell if he feels breathless from the smoke or from the thought.

And as he opens the door to his new apartment and lays on his bed, John finds himself scared and alone and a little lost. But, listening to the traffic outside and smelling the fresh pastries from the bakery across the street, he also feels excited and new and free, and he thinks this must be the best feeling in the world.

.

.

.

_Now_

John knows there is no way his apartment will ever be _home_ again. There is too much left and too much missing. It's a scar, it's a reminder, it's a memory but it's not home.

So, John knows what he needs to do. He needs to find home once more in what he has. Maybe Lafayette doesn't joke as much as he used to and maybe his friendship with Burr is more strained than in the past, but still, there is peace on Lafayette's french accent and he is grateful for Burr picking him up at odd hours of the night. And now, there is also Eliza's soft voice and Peggy's bright smile and Mulligan's booming laughter.

Maybe all of them have a little more darkness in their eyes than they used to, but John can work with that. Even if they are all a little broken, even if Mulligan and Burr work more and more hours and Angelica looks as if she is carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, well, he doesn't mind, he is not whole either. But despite what they all think, despite the nagging on his mind, he can do it again, he can find himself a home, maybe not _home,_ but close enough.

This is all on his mind as he steps into the coffee shop and takes a seat across Lafayette.

John orders his coffee and raises an eyebrow at the way his friend keeps fidgeting, eyes finally falling on the copy of the New York Times on the table. He reaches for it but the frenchman snatches it from his grasp.

" _John-"_

Lafayette's eyes are filled with concern and doubt and John knows he _needs_ to see it. He takes it and scans through the classsified section again, eyes alert and searching.

"- it's a very common quote,-"

He keeps reading, looking for something to hold on to.

"- anyone could have done it for any reason-"

John feels his heart accelerating on his chest, the blood rushing through his veins as he reads it out loud, " _Things are always better in the morning."_ He looks at Lafayette, finds the same worry but also _doubt_ and he thinks maybe this is a battle he can win, "Laf, you remember, you were _there_ too."

_"John-"_

_"Gilbert."_

They stare at each other until Lafayette finally sighs, curses in french, relents, "If we look into this, will you stop the bar fighting?"

John nods vehemently and stands, eyes filled urgency and determination and hope and _life_ as he drags his friend out of the coffeeshop.

.

.

.

_Before_

John feels numb as he hungs up the phone and lets it fall on the ground. His fathers words repeat themselves on his mind, _i don't have a son anymore don't come back Jack disowned don't come back until you're fixed-_

He can hear his friends laughing in the living room, he can hear Alexander talking loudly over the argument. He doesn't know when he joined them at the couch, but now they are all silent and Alex is looking expectantly at him.

"I said, John, are you okay?"

Maybe it's the worry laced in Alexander's voice, or maybe it's the warmth of his hand on John's shoulder, or maybe there is no particular reason at all but suddenly he realizes how utterly helpless he is. John realizes that _disowned_ means no more med school, it means no more apartment outside campus, it means he has no idea what to do with himself. It means not seeing his siblings again or visiting his mother's grave. It means having his whole life ripped out of him and teared to pieces.

John becomes aware of all of this and suddenly he can feel _everything_.So he cries and sobs and clings to Alex's shirt. He tells them his father's words and pulls at his hair and rages until he is left empty.

Then, Alex holds him and kisses him and tells him to sleep, he says _things are always better in the morning._ John sees Lafayette nodding and feels Hercules squeezing his hand, so he repeats Alex's words in his mind until he almost believes them himself.

.

.

.

_Now_

" _Mon ami,_ I just don't want you to hurt any more than you already are. Don't get your hopes up, _oui?"_

John offers Lafayette a shaky unconvincing smile. They stand in front of New York's 25th precint, newspaper clutched tightly on his hands. As they enter, a familiar figure leaves the building.

"Burr? What are you doing here?"

John watches as Burr freezes and stares at them with wide eyes.

"Well, I was with a client."

"You? Taking a case on Harlem?"

"I need more pro bono hours. Now, if you excuse me."

As the man leaves hurriedly, Lafayette looks at John, shrugs, "well, that was weird even for Burr."

"Guess he's still pissed at me."

He shakes his head, focus his attention in navegating the office to Mulligan's desk. John smiles at the sight of someone as intimidating as the detective melting in Lafayette's arms, in his chest something stings with longing and he wonders if they were ever like that, Alexander and him.

John never understood how Alex befriended Hercules, he asked him once but Alex simply said _he was my first friend here_ and sure it explained why but not how a lawyer student and a young officer became friends. It was unusual but well, a lot of things about Alexander were unusual, and as John explains the situation, he has never been more grateful for Hercules's friendship. That is, until he says _no._

"You want me to hack into the New York Times archives and find the IP of whoever sent that ad? Did I get that right? And all because you saw someone who looks like Alex?"

"I know how it sounds but-"

"John. No. I love you, youare my friend, my brother, but you need to let it go. Alex is dead. Don't go around chasing ghosts. This ads must be some book club or something."

" _Mon amour,_ now, we know that. But if it will help ease our little John, then wouldn't it be worth checking?"

"Yeah, if it turns out a dead end, I'll drop it, I promise. Herc, please, I need to be sure. _Please."_

John bits his lip, watches nervously as Mulligan shakes his head muttering under his breath and then sighs, nods. The detective hesitantly types on the computer and then scribbles a series of numbers on a paper.

"It's from a public library computer. How did you even know I could do it?"

"We all just assume you can do everything."

"Yeah, we stopped questioning long ago, man." John agrees and is about to leave when an idea pops on his mind, "hey, can't you trace the card number or some shit?"

Mulligan hesitates, eyes flitting around before he shrugs and types some more. When he speaks, his voice is tired and defeate and John duly wonders if they are breaking some laws, "Yeah, it's on the name of a Juan Alvárez. No criminal records, no pictures."

"Thanks, man"

"Hey, John? Just be careful, both of you, hear me?"

John nods, feeling strangely as if he is missing something, but then he meets Lafayette outside and the name _Juan Alvaréz_ echoes on his head. Still, even as they wait for a cab, he can't stop thinking about Alice falling and falling deeper down the rabbit hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello again. If you liked this story so far, you can always leave a kudo or a review, it's always lovely and makes my day a bit brighter. 
> 
> On other notes, I'm turning this into a series since I have one other one-shot of this AU published and I may or may not be working on others. If you have suggestions or prompts, tell me either on the comments or you can find me on my tumblr neverforgetswhatyou-lost.tumblr.com
> 
> So, thanks for reading and see y'all next time!

**Author's Note:**

> You made it to the end! If you liked, maybe leave a kudo or a comment, that would be nice and just maybe motivate me to work faster. Then again, thanks for reading!


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